Indecisive
by Bil
Summary: He's been shot at by an alien missile, had his ear talked off by a crazy woman under the ice, and now O'Neill wants him to sign up on a one-way trip to Anywhere? John's not convinced. "Rising" insert. John&Elizabeth pre-friendship. Oneshot.


**Indecisive  
**by Bil!

K – General – John, Elizabeth – Oneshot

Summary: He's been shot at by an alien missile, had his ear talked off by a crazy woman under the ice, and now O'Neill wants him to sign up on a one-way trip to Anywhere? John's not convinced. John&Elizabeth pre-friendship.

Season: 1. Spoilers: _Rising_.

Disclaimer: Characters not mine. Universe not mine. Quotes from the episode also not mine.

A/N: I'm fairly sure the topic of John's thoughts at the start of _Rising_ has been done to death in fanfic, but I think I found a slightly different angle. Anyway, having written the thing, why not post it? Someone might enjoy it.

* * *

"_Who is this?"_

"_I thought I told you not to touch anything!"_

"_Think about where we are in the solar system."_

"_Now this isn't a long trip, so I'll be as succinct as possible."_

"_I told her I'd think about it."_

* * *

The flight back to McMurdo was silent. General O'Neill frowned out at the frozen wastes of Antarctica's summer and John tried to concentrate on flying and not think about anything else. This was crazy. Absolutely crazy.

He hadn't been kidding when he told the general he kinda liked Antarctica. There wasn't a lot to do, admittedly, but it was a pretty amazing place. Everything was done on a truly grand scale, so that he'd look down at an iceberg he was flying over and it'd look like ice floating on a pond back home but when he got closer he'd suddenly realise that the thing was ten miles across and you could just about fight a war on top of it. The auroras were simply spectacular of course, and he hadn't ever known there were so many colours of ice or that there was more to Antarctica than just snow. He bet not even these all-hail Ancient folk these people were so worked up about (second evolution of this form? what kind of crazy world were they running down here under the ice?) could produce anything as beautiful as the patterns of wind and ice he'd found here. It was a pretty cool place, unintentional puns aside. Maybe being sent here had originally been meant as a punishment, but John really did kinda like it in Antarctica.

And now they wanted him to leave.

He'd _said_ he'd think about it. Why couldn't they just accept that? He'd quite liked General O'Neill (unusually for one of the brass), who seemed like a good sort of CO, a good guy to have at your back and probably a decent drinking buddy, but he and Weir were equally nuts. As for this 'If you can't give me a yes by the time we reach McMurdo then I don't even want you' crap, John thought that was just plain stupid. He'd known about this whole Stargate thing about ten minutes longer than he'd known about this trip to another galaxy thing – and he'd known about that for about an hour. How could he be expected to make a life-changing decision, a really really _big_ decision, after an hour?

These people dumped their issues into his lap, turned his world upside down, threw alien missiles at him, informed him that there were aliens among us (and hell, he was practically one of them with this freaky mutant gene thing going on), and demanded that he let himself be taken on a one way trip to another galaxy. Strangely enough, this wasn't what he signed up for when he joined the military! They should consider themselves lucky he didn't just turn them down flat!

He'd said he would think about it and he thought that should be enough for them. Seriously. It wasn't as if they needed his answer right this instant, they weren't exactly leaving tomorrow, and he _did_ need to think about it. Not because of any of the reasons they thought, Weir and O'Neill, looking at him with disappointment because he wasn't enthusiastically jumping on their bandwagon shouting "Yippee!" at the idea of being marooned on an alien planet. He wasn't a coward, he wasn't by nature cautious, and he didn't have any particular ties to Earth, but he needed to be sure that he really wanted to go on this crazy, stupid, insane ride. He needed to be sure he was going because it was what _he_ wanted to do. _Not_, he needed to be quite clear, because it was what _she_ wanted him to do.

Doctor Weir had talked at him, enthusiastic and intense, explaining Atlantis, her mission, her vision. Her eyes had flashed with animated and fervent zeal, insisting that he join in her excitement. She desperately wanted what he had to offer, this mutant gene of his, and she was willing to talk until she had him as enthusiastic as she was herself – even if it took days. She hadn't had days, though, and so she'd made the most she could of what time she had, her face alive with infectious passion and her hair bouncing about her face as she waved her hands in wild illustration, trying to convince him to believe in her cause through sheer force of will.

She came scarily close.

John was used to scientists. There were a bunch of them at McMurdo and he took them about the continent, listened half-heartedly to their enthusiastic lectures, and focussed on dropping them off where they needed to go. Weir wasn't a scientist – if he understood rightly she was a politician, of all things – but she had that same wide-eyed exuberance about this mission as the zoologists had about penguin poo. But instead of yammering on about the mating habits of skuas, she was talking about adventure (and some stuff about the meaning of life and expanding human knowledge, but adventure was the important point). And he was listening.

It was stupid and it was crazy: John never listened to scientists, he was immune to scientists... and yet he couldn't seem to tune her out. Weir's enthusiasm really was contagious. He could still remember just about every word she'd said to him, her arguments and explanations and her dignified pleading. This crazy woman under the ice wanted him on her insane wonderland ride so badly that she didn't care about the black mark on his file, didn't flinch at any of his attempts to prove himself unworthy. It disturbed him that someone could need him that much; other people had this gene too, didn't they? What made him so special?

If only he could get her voice out of his head! He'd thought once he got away from her she'd stop casting that freaky spell on him and he'd be able to think clearly and figure out just what it was _he_ wanted. John wasn't used to letting other people influence him. He'd follow orders (mostly), he'd fit in with the group – but he'd keep his own opinions and his own thoughts and he wouldn't let anyone else tell him what to think. Yet one crazy doctor with sunburnt cheeks had him so twisted around he didn't know which thoughts were his and which were hers.

Dammit, how was he supposed to make an important decision with that damned woman stuck in his head? She wasn't infectious, she was downright virulent! If people were viruses she'd be the Black Plague.

He tried to shut her out and focus on the important things. Stargates and star-hopping sounded pretty cool, he had to admit. Alien bad guys not so much, but he could live with that. The one-way business, though, that was the sticking point. To do her justice, Weir had made no attempt to downplay that aspect of it, outlining the risks with a frankness rare in a politician, she'd just unintentionally made it sound petty to be worried about that when compared to what her mission could mean. John was pretty sure it wasn't petty, but with her voice echoing around in his helmet it was hard to think of reasons why. On the other hand, what did he have on Earth to tie him down? About the only thing he'd miss if he could never come back was the Super Bowl. And maybe _Playboy_.

Meanwhile this Weir woman (funny how suddenly everything kept coming back to her) was too dangerously enthusiastic. She could get herself killed that way and even though he'd only known her a short while John didn't want her to get killed. It was obvious to him, though no one around her seemed to see it, that she needed someone to watch her back so she could get on with being enthusiastic without accidentally committing suicide. Why that someone should be him was a question he didn't feel capable of answering.

Dammit, she'd done it again! Why couldn't he just get her out of his head? His decision as to whether he really wanted a one way trip to another galaxy should be about him, completely about him. _She_ shouldn't come into it at _all_. John had a very strong urge to hit something. If the general hadn't been in the chopper he'd have relieved his feelings with some fancy flying, but a guy couldn't subject one of the brass to stomach-churning, gravity-defying flying. At least not if he wanted to keep his job. Though if they were going to spring any more of these sorts of surprises on him he didn't think he _wanted_ to keep his job.

John smothered a sigh and sternly kept his helicopter flying in a straight line, his hands gripping the controls with unnecessary force.

At McMurdo he set the chopper down light as a feather in a perfect landing, just to prove to himself that he was in control of his flying if not his thoughts. O'Neill unbuckled himself, opened his door, and looked at John in interrogation. When John gave a resigned half shrug, the general nodded. "Good man."

* * *

John spent every moment between then and arriving at the SGC trying to decide if this was his decision or the decision of a stranger in a base under Antarctica who'd looked at him with eager expectation and infectious excitement.

_Fin_


End file.
